Darkest Before Dawn
by Houkanno Yuuhou
Summary: Everyone has moments, little secrets about themselves that they keep hidden, that if revealed, would expose whom they really are. What are these secrets? Random peeks into anyone's life at any time, in any universe. Oneshots will rate from G to R.
1. Struck Speechless

The following one-shots take place at various times throughout the Hey Arnold casts' lives. Be warned that continuity does not follow any specific guidelines herein.

These one-shots all come from the Livejournal community, HAprompts. Thanks to BC for her inspiration. (These first two are already up on Deviant Art, but I kind of forgot to upload them here, and since I'll be writing more for that community when inspiration strikes, I decided to put them all together in one place, wrapped up in a nice tight bow.)

Author's Note for SS: Written for the Livejournal community, HA Prompts, on April 27, 2007. The prompt was "words fail you".

OH NOES HELGA ANGST! Nah, just a smidgen. Not really angst, as much as it's a more realistic outlook on the Arnold/Helga relationship. No super-romantic ending here. Last paragraph changes tense to reflect that we're viewing Helga in the present. Everything else is her reflecting on her past mistake.

This is set in current continuity, after the defunct Jungle Movie, sometime during the defunct Patakis show.

**Struck Speechless**

Arnold had been faithfully sending her letters ever since he moved to San Lorenzo to be with his newly-found parents. Before he had boarded the bus, he'd pulled her aside to promise her that he would write her, and yes, he was a man of his word. She knew that he was also writing to the rest of his former classmates, but she felt especially privileged to be the only one he mailed once every two weeks. He called it his way of "getting to know the real her" and vice versa. Mostly his letters were about San Lorenzo, what it was like to finally have parents in his life again, questions about the health of his grandparents, other classmates, and his eternal thanks to her for her help in finding his parents.

She always meant to write him back -- really, she did. She was just too busy with helping out at the boarding house and her dad's business, and good old Arnold assumed that was the case, so he continued to write her. He once told her that he got enough information about her out of Phoebe anyway to satisfy him, so armed with that knowledge, she tried to feel less guilty about her actions, and it worked...until one day.

It was right after Valentine's Day. She'd been vacuuming herself into despair over the fact that she was, once again, alone on another holiday when Gertie had tapped at her shoulder and surprised her with a card from Arnold. It ended appropriately with _Will you be my Valentine, Helga?_ and at the time she was convinced that it was just Arnold being his usual corny self by using one of the many pre-manufactured lines for the occasion. Secretly however, she'd slept with that card under her pillow for a week until it had almost been destroyed. Then it went into her empty jewelry box.

She knew she should send some sort of "thank you" note, but it was all so...awkward, so she just pushed it out of her mind.

Then the next letter came when she was daydreaming about married life while dusting the furniture. That was when she knew something was wrong, something was different. He was a little saddened by the fact that she hadn't written him after the card, but he'd get over it. She was busy, right?  
He ended the letter with: _Please write me, Helga. I miss talking to you, and well, I miss you most of all._

She tried, she really did, but when she put pen to paper, nothing came out.

She felt empty, angry, and confused...and so sure that her mind was finally betraying her. Years of being able to rattle off extravagant soliloquies at the bat of an eyelash, and now here she was, ready to perform for her own flaxen-haired muse, but without anything to say.

So she put the letter away with the card and tried to forget both, and she did until the next letter came. And the next letter, and so on.

Each letter was less hopeful and cheery than the previous one. Her beloved Arnold seemed to be settling back down to Earth, losing more and more of the optimistic behavior that she adored and admired. Deep down, she knew she was the cause of his new sullen mood.

Frustrated with herself for doing nothing to fix the problem, she decided to confide in Dr. Bliss.

Big mistake. Dr. Bliss was really, really good at making her recognize and admit the truth. Yeah, yeah...she was doing "it" again, telling herself that Arnold wasn't really interested in her, that he couldn't -- in any possible way ever -- like her back. Her fear of rejection and of having more hurt piled on top of the other wounds outweighed her desire to feel wanted and loved, and it was getting in the way of a possible relationship with Arnold. Again.

But there was a twist, this time. A painful twist to her heart.

Dr. Bliss mentioned another possibility, that perhaps Arnold was trying to cling to something familiar to guide him through an uncertain time in his life, and maybe his feelings weren't the same feelings she had been waiting her whole life to have returned. They were young, after all, and perhaps "true love" wasn't really true love.

That hit her like a ton of bricks. Not that she hadn't thought of that, but to hear it out loud...well, she wasn't prepared. Plus, it reawakened the notion that perhaps Helga's own feelings for Arnold...well, maybe she really had no idea what love was and had been kidding herself all these years.

Dr. Bliss told her to take a chance and write him back. If anything, it would make him feel better.

She just couldn't. There it was, the possibility that Arnold may, indeed, like-her like-her hanging in front of her just waiting for her to reach out and grab it. And she was struck speechless.

His last letter came right before the new school year began. It started out normally, talking about his latest adventures, something funny his dad said to his mom, Phoebe reiterating something stupid Gerald did over the summer, and then he dropped a bomb on her.

_I don't think I can write anymore, Helga. I know I've tried to hang on to the belief that you're just too busy with everything to write back, so I apologize for this, but I have to stop. I don't know if it's something I did or if your feelings have changed. I don't understand why you haven't written back, at least once. Just to say hi. I don't get it, but I guess I'll get used to it. Thanks for being a good listener though, as it's been nice to be so open with someone. I can't do that with Gerald. Keep taking care of my grandparents. They have a lot of good things to say about you. Take care of yourself, too, because I know you don't do that very well. Have a good life, I guess, until I see you again. If I see you again._

The letter stays buried with others just like it in that old useless jewelry box. Sometimes she catches herself smacking her hand whenever it draws closer to taking out those letters and rereading them. Every day, she tells herself that today's the day she'll finally find the courage to write him back, but she's just fooling herself. She's still that same mixed-up kid who really believes that she's incapable of being loved, and Arnold deserves better. Maybe one day, she'll finally be able to fully convince herself that's the truth, but until then she can't do it. Words just fail her.


	2. Impressions

Author's Note: Written for the Livejournal community, HA Prompts, on April 27, 2007. The prompt was "handshakes".

This piece focuses on Bob's relationship with Helga. No one seems to like writing about Bob as anything but an abusive jerk, and here, well, I decided to show that's he's only human. Humans make mistakes. Written as if Bob's doing his autobiography in 3rd person.

This takes place in a future for the Pataki family where Helga never got help and possibly never got Arnold, thus one of the reason for her distance and cold, calculating demeanor.

**Impressions: What Your Handshake Says About You**

One of the first things taught in business management seminars is that you should have a firm handshake. Lets your clients know that they can count on you, lets your competition know that you'll be one tough SOB to beat. No one is a bigger believer than Big Bob Pataki in this practice. He always let his hands do his talking for him; they say he's a surefire go-getter, and he will stop at nothing in order to get his way. A good, strong manly man.

Everyone he does business with in his little city knows that.

He uses his hands to read others, too, in return. Take for instance, Marty Green, who came in earlier today to purchase a cell phone for his young apprentice, Harry-something-or-other, so they can easily reach each other when they need to. Man grabs yours with a good solid grasp and shakes three times, always. Not sure if the three thing is some sort of superstition of his, but you can be sure that something is not quite right if it's a little off.

Then there's that old woman who runs the local flower shop...something Vitello. She's a business owner, so you'd think she knows about the handshake thing, but nah. She may put on airs that she knows what she's doing, that she's in charge, but Big Bob's no fool. She may seem prim and proper, but he can tell by one shake that she's a wacky old bird who's never anything but nervous. She's been that way since her husband died.

Yeah, the handshake thing even extends to his own family. There's Miriam, who won't even fully take a hand into hers, and it wouldn't even matter anyway because she's always off in some world of her own. Her hand just kind of...droops...whenever he tries to hold it. She never used to be this way, and he can't figure out what's wrong with her. Eh, women. Must be that "going through the changes" junk.

Then there's Olga, and as much as he wishes she would follow in his footsteps, he's resigned himself to understand her desire to teach. He's known for years, really, because she always giggles when she takes his hand into hers, ever so lightly. She's a frail thing, and she takes after her mother, but she's his little girl, just the same.

But then...then there's...the girl.

He can't read her, and he hates to admit it. Maybe that's why he brushes her off so much. Even when she was a baby, she held his fingers tightly, as if she was afraid that he'd disappear. And she had this look in her big blue eyes that he couldn't describe.

When she was younger, she was Daddy's little girl, just like Olga. She'd grab his hand in hers and wouldn't let go. She would draw him pictures and pick him flowers, and he'd think it was cute. Then Olga would come in with something else wonderful she'd done, and he'd thank whomever for giving him such good girls...and oh yeah, he'd like a son, too. Then the girl would get that same look in her eyes, and it would haunt him in his dreams. 

As she got older, she started to pester him to play ball with her or they'd hunt for frogs in Tina Park. They'd curl up together on the couch at night and watch Wrestlemania, and then she'd look up at him with that piercing stare. Say something like, "I love you, Daddy," sniffle, and then he'd push her off –- joking, just joking with her, of course! -- and say, "Why do you have to be such a...such a _girly girl_?"

She didn't laugh...but one day, after he did their usual routine, she looked at him oddly and then...slowly smiled. But it wasn't a happy smile.

He didn't put much thought into it. By God, he had more important things to worry about. And the girl shouldn't be so blasted emotional; she's a Pataki, after all! All of Big Bob's girls have got to be strong!

Things are growing worse. They're at each others' throats about something, constantly. Why the hell can't she be more like Olga? Stop putting her head in those journals of hers and actually do some school work! Be someone, someone important like him!!

Why can't she be sweet like she used to be? Why can't she stay Daddy's little girl?

They shook hands over a deal made the other day. She agreed to come in and start helping with the family business, so she can learn the ropes. She may not be as bright as Olga, but he thinks she's got a lot of Big Bob's infamous spunk in her. In return, he agreed to get off her back about the writing thing. He didn't care to make the deal because she'll see things his way soon enough, and she'll stop thinking about wanting to be a writer. Be someone important, someone successful like him.

Her grip's still strong, after all this time, like she's still that baby who's afraid that he'll disappear if she lets go, but her eyes are different now. They aren't those innocent, loving eyes that he remembers. Instead, they're penetrating and cold. She reminds him of that guy, what was his name? Something Sheck. Yeah.

Now he can't read her at all...and he really hates it.


	3. Sealed With A Kiss

She sat, back rigid against an old brown leather office chair with a fountain pen twirling through a shaky right hand while the index finger of her left tapped impatiently on a piece of pink stationery. The drawn hearts mocked her inability to let go of the painful secrets churning deeply within her, and she found herself inking frowning faces over the obnoxious little offenders.

Leaning forward, head resting cockeyed against her sweaty palm, she admired her artwork before twisting her face into a discouraged pout and proceeded to wad up the paper. The crinkled ball whizzed through the air until it landed in a growing pile of previously aborted transgressions.

"This is hopeless," she whined, raking a hand through dirty blond waves. "I can't do this."

A voice startled her out of her thoughts; she had almost forgotten she wasn't alone. "Yes, you can. Pretend that this is no different than your normal poetry."

"But it is," Helga cut in. "One, I'm not used to having an audience, and two, I've never actually written anything worth reading _to _my muse. My love sonnets were never meant to be seen by anyone other than yours truly."

The auburn-haired woman standing in front of her couldn't be detoured, however. She fixed a pained smile on her lips and glared at Helga. "So let's consider this something similar to an English assignment. Extra credit, if you will."

The blond teen studied the carpet below her as if it was the most interesting shade of beige she had ever seen in her short existence. "He probably doesn't care to hear from me after all this time," she mumbled sullenly.

"You don't know that. Weren't you just telling me earlier that he wrote Phoebe a letter confessing his worry over why you haven't sent him anything?"

Helga harrumphed in return. "Arnold worries over stepping on a bug and ending its precious life, OK? He worries about everyone. It doesn't mean I'm anyone special." She closed her eyes and sighed. "He's just acting concerned because that's what people expect of St. Arnoldo."

"_No_," the older woman bit out in frustration, "he's acting concerned because he's _genuinely _concerned." Clasping her hands together, she stared at Helga, reminding the girl of an old Mother Superior about to give a lecture. Inwardly, Helga groaned. "Why did you come here today if you didn't want help with this? Why barge into my office with this news if you really don't care?"

Why _had_ she run there, heart nearly bursting from her chest like an angry monster with each quickening beat? She had knocked down people with vicious snarls and shoves as her feet carried her the way they knew well from years of practice, all because…because….

Because she had never felt this panicked before, like the world was caving in around her. Nothing had ever been this bad.

"I don't know," she whispered frantically, feeling the now familiar feeling of desperation grasp hold of her every breath. "I can't explain it, really, but it feels like if I don't write _something_, I'm going to explode!" She jumped from her chair and paced around the tiny office, not unlike a caged lioness.

"And why's that?"

"I don't know, I said!" she spat.

A sudden unleashing of the Beatles' _Help! _from the cell phone on the desk interrupted the tension, and before the older woman could even set it to ignore, the skinny blond picked it up and hurled it out an open window; her tall frame bent over afterward, heaving tremendously.

A few seconds later, both were treated to the sickening sounds of plastic shattering to bits on concrete.

She looked at Helga with wide, frightened eyes.

The blond noticed and began breathing short puffs from her mouth in an effort to calm herself. She focused on the ticking of a clock in the room, feeling herself unwind with every movement of the second hand. "I'm so sorry," she apologized helplessly. "I don't know why I did that. I can get a phone from Bob to replace it, I'm sure."

"Don't worry about the phone." She placed a comforting hand on the girl's trembling back. "Do you feel better?"

"No," Helga replied truthfully. "I feel like…like if I don't write him, I'm really going to lose him forever, and my heart…oh _geez_, it feels like my heart is going to break."

"No one said you had to channel Percy Shelley, Helga. A simple letter letting him know how things are will suffice, you know."

"Do I tell him everything?" Nervousness crept into her voice.

A smile was offered. "Only as much as you want to tell."

The teen nodded with renewed confidence, and as her right hand grabbed her pen firmly, the smile was returned.

* * *

_Arnold,_

_First of all, I'm really sorry for not replying sooner. There's no excuse for it, I know. The only explanation that I can offer is that I haven't been myself. Wait -- scratch that – I HAVE been myself, just a little too much, sadly. You see, my mind did its usual tricks of trying to distract me from the reality of the situation. Every now and then, it does this thing where it persuades me that no one could possibly care about me, and it kept whispering to me that there was no way you really wanted to hear from me, that you were just being…well, you. I know you'll read this and scoff as there's no way you'll understand how I could feel that way with your wondrous love pouring out from your letters, but even when surrounded by the warmth of your words, I still feel the chill of my mind's wicked taunts. _

_I never stopped loving you, you worrywart! My love, if anything, has doubled in strength! Never doubt that, even in the darkest corner of the night. _

_It's just that I feel silly writing this to you. How can I ever put into proper words how I'm feeling at any moment I'm thinking of you? How can you ever begin to comprehend the extent to which my love would reach when I can't tell you? How can you ever know the amount of tears that stain my pillowcase and sheets, agonizing over the emptiness inside me without you here? How can I ever hope to show you how much I love you for just being you?_

_I don't even know where to begin. All I do know is that I can spend the rest of my life figuring out a way with each breath that I take. _

_So please forgive me for my failed attempts to reach out to you. I promise that this peace-offering will get to you because I'm sure that Dr. Bliss will extract it from my shivering hands. However, I beg you to take pity upon me as I can't promise to keep this up. There are too many rainy days in my soul holding back the will to write, and I fear the sunshine won't return until I can actually hold you within my arms. Just remember that this declaration of love stands should you one day return, and even if our paths should never cross again, it is still sealed with a kiss._

_Forever yours,_

_Helga G. Pataki_


End file.
